


An Understanding

by Dr_TJ_Eckleburg



Category: Psycho (1960)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_TJ_Eckleburg/pseuds/Dr_TJ_Eckleburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moment Sam Loomis caught Norman Bates’s gaze, it was there: a sort of spark, an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Understanding

The moment Sam Loomis caught Norman Bates’s gaze, it was there: a sort of spark, an understanding. At this point, words would be superfluous. Most things in life were really better left unsaid and anyway, what would the steely Lila Crane say if she heard Sam fraternizing with the enemy?

But enemy or not, Sam could hardly ignore Norman, his glances that lingered just moments too long or his shy half-smiles.

“Wait here,” Sam told Lila when they reached their designated cabin. “Let me talk to Bates before we go tearing this place apart.”

“He’s not going to tell us—”

“No, not us. Just me.”

He left Lila pouting supremely on the bed, her icy eyes fixed on some far corner of the room. She couldn’t take much more waiting, she hissed. 

Well, she was going to have to.

He found Norman waiting for him in the office. “Looking for me?” he asked, and as they exchanged the meaningless banter Sam wanted to avoid, Norman’s gaze flitted like a hummingbird over Sam’s entire body, often choosing to settle on his lips. His eyes were dark and inviting. No, not warm enough to be considered inviting, Sam decided, but intriguing. He knew what he was asking for with those eyes, and though Norman’s stance was tense and nervous, he knew he wanted it. They had an understanding.

They found privacy in the secluded aviary of the parlor. “You know, I could use a distraction right about now,” Sam said with a grin. “It seems to me you could, too.”

Norman looked stricken when the idea was put into words, and for a moment, Sam thought he would break, but with a nod and the slightest swell of his chest, he answered, “I could.”

His mouth was anxious and awkward against Sam’s to start with. He didn’t know quite what to do with his hands, but at the same time, he was voracious, starving to death. Sam didn’t know when—if ever—Norman Bates last got laid, but he obviously needed him. With a firm hand, Sam took control. They didn’t have time for Norman to get his bearings, not with the ice queen waiting impatiently in cabin ten.

The musty smell of old books and dusty dead birds was hardly ambrosial, but Sam breathed deep Norman’s own clean scent. There was information to be gained here, Sam realized as he sucked hard on Norman’s throat, the motel man giving a soft moan. Marion, the money, Sam could know it all. He could have Norman Bates on his knees begging, babbling everything he needed to know. It would be a lot more effective than searching every cabin for God-knows-what, and not to mention more… fulfilling?

The large owl looming behind him, Sam had Norman Bates in his grasp.

And yet, Sam was content just to pin this strange man to the settee, to feel his body arc against his, to feel Norman’s warm and eager mouth grow used to his. Marion seemed like some distant bad dream, some weight that had, at least momentarily, been lifted from his shoulders. And why should he find such solace, he wondered, in this lanky stranger? Norman’s hips shuddered against him, his arousal pressing into Sam’s thigh. Sam reached between his legs with teasing fingers.

“What’s your name?” Norman gasped and searched his face with his hummingbird gaze.

“Didn’t you read the register when I signed?” Sam asked with a smirk and unbuckled Norman’s belt.

“Your real name,” he insisted, an edge creeping into his voice, but Sam still noticed the blush rising in his cheeks.

He paused. “Sam Loomis.” It fell from Sam’s lips of its own accord. Why on Earth was he telling him who he really was? Only briefly did panic rise inside him. _Good job, Loomis, you’ve completely compromised the situation!_ But—at least for the time being—he was finding it terribly difficult to care.

Norman breathlessly introduced himself, and there was that crooked smile again. What a peculiar but satisfying introduction this was. “Well, you already knew my name,” Norman added. At least, that’s what Sam thought he said. He became a tad incoherent as Sam grasped him fully, thumb running in small circles over the head of his cock. Norman sank his nails into the upholstery.

Moments later he caught Norman’s gaze again. He was weak, he could see it in his eyes, and it brought a grin to Sam’s face. He could’ve extracted any information he wanted from this strange man’s skull. Hell, he could’ve gotten Norman Bates to tell him if he wore women’s clothing at this point.

Instead he pulled him from the settee, covering his mouth with his own again before pushing him with suitable force against the parlor wall. He pressed a finger to Norman’s lips, and Norman stared back with wide and desperate eyes. “Not a sound,” Sam said lowly, holding the other man in place with a firm hand. “Do you hear me?” Norman nodded, jaw pulsing. “ _The wife_ is listening.”

Norman’s breath came in short gasps as Sam’s teeth grazed his throat, his hands gripping his hips. There was an exquisite desperation inside Norman Bates. Sam could feel it with each trembling hand Norman brought over his skin, with every burning kiss. He was starving, aching for the kind of attention and relief that Sam could give him.

God, he had him in the palm of his hand.

Sam dropped to his knees slowly. He wanted to see Norman tremble, wanted him to beg him for it, but he knew their time was limited. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he could see him beg another time.

Norman shivered and stifled a whimper as Sam flicked his teasing tongue over his head before wrapping his mouth around him fully. The soft, strained oh that left Norman’s lips was enough to send a chill down Sam’s own spine, but he hoped the other man didn’t notice. Norman gasped and brought a hand to cover his mouth, his other hand already threading through Sam’s hair.

It did occur to Sam that this was his last chance to pry from Norman what he originally came for. If he left him shaking, pleading now, the whole mystery would be solved. Marion Crane and forty grand found; the story is over. Everyone goes home, happiness optional. Everything was perfect; Sam had Norman weakened, pinned against the wall and oh, would he beg if he cruelly stole relief from him at the last minute. He would talk. He could _make him_ talk.

“Oh God,” Norman breathed.

He was his prey, and he had him now.

But he wasn’t done with him yet.

The quiet hums and moans that Norman couldn’t keep inside pushed Sam on, and he gripped his waist with both hands, thumbs slipping under fabric to run in circles over jutting hipbones. He knew he was close, losing his grip.

He wasn’t done with him yet. There was an exquisite desperation inside Norman Bates. He needed this badly, and Sam Loomis intended to bleed him dry.

Norman sank his teeth into his lower lip as he came, but still couldn’t entirely silence himself, some strangled spawn of a gasp and a moan escaping his throat. He grasped Sam’s hair in fistfuls before one hand crept down to grip him by the shoulder. And it was quite a grip, really.

It wasn’t until he was looking Norman in the eyes again that Sam felt a twinge of apprehension. There was _something_ in his gaze, something in his outwardly charming and relieved smile. Sam was suddenly very aware of the eyes of every dead bird in the parlor, and for a moment he wondered who exactly was the prey here. He had been so sure that he had Norman in his grasp… was it the other way around? He suppressed a shiver.

But it wasn’t enough to push him away forever.

“I think we’ll be checking out, actually,” Sam said with a smile, and a different kind of relief washed over Norman. “Doesn’t look like rain after all. I’ll tell the wife.” He winked. He would be back. Perhaps that evening, perhaps next week.

But he didn’t have to say it. Words, words, words. Words were useless. Norman gave a deep nod and led Sam from the sanctuary of the parlor. 

\--

Sam Loomis’s so-called wife was not happy to leave, but Sam scooped her into the car and drove off, leaving Norman alone with his thoughts. He leaned on the door to the office, still not entirely steady on his feet again. They didn’t say another word to each other, not a single word. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed deeply.

This man, this Sam Loomis, was as imposing, as handsome as any of the men in the books—filthy, filthy books—Norman had hidden in his bedroom. He could still feel his hands running over his body, his mouth against his. Arousal and anxiety mingled inside him.

Norman wasn’t an idiot. These two, Sam and the girl who looked so much like the one rotting at the bottom of the swamp, had come to destroy him. They’re the reason Sherriff Chambers called the night before, and Sam was the one calling for Arbogast last night as Norman watched him sink into the muck. They were supposed to be his downfall and Mother’s.

Things had changed now. He had Sam Loomis in his grasp.

Mother had always warned Norman of the evils of flirtatious whores, loose women sent to tempt her _poor_ son. She had never said _anything_ of Sam Loomis. Anyway, Mother didn’t need to know about everything in Norman’s life, did she? The poor old woman had quite enough on her mind, didn’t she?

Sam would be back, and Norman smiled at the thought. He may not have said it aloud, but Norman saw it in his eyes, confident and dark.

They had an understanding.


End file.
